


Day 26: Love Song

by thebright1



Series: An Ineffable Plan: A Canon Compliant Love Story [26]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angst and Feels, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Ineffable Valentines 2020 (Good Omens), M/M, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Soul Bond, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22916632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebright1/pseuds/thebright1
Summary: Why would God make an angel who could love a demon?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: An Ineffable Plan: A Canon Compliant Love Story [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620406
Comments: 20
Kudos: 131





	Day 26: Love Song

**Author's Note:**

> All of the stories in this series are linked together (this really should have been a chaptered work, but hindsight is 20/20), so if you want a full picture of what exactly is going on, please start with [ Day 1: Chocolate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22520329). 
> 
> This story has been written for the Ineffable Valentines 2020 Challenge on Tumblr.
> 
> Update: All the works in this series are also posted as a chaptered work for easier reading/downloading: [ An Ineffable Plan](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23081191/chapters/55213303)

The Last Day (Saturday) - Heaven

The Quartermaster is enraged. “I count them all out, and I count them all in again. And then you turn up-- LATE!-- for Armaggeddon! No flaming sword! Not even a BODY YOU PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR AN ANGEL!” he screams. 

Aziraphale feels something rising up inside him. He thinks of all the rules and regulations that have been placed on him over the years. He thinks about putting clothes on and off quickly, because nakedness is forbidden. He thinks of sweaty days in his bookshop, because he can’t waste a miracle on corporeal comforts. He thinks of kale and quinoa salads. He thinks of hours of filling out tedious forms. He thinks of Sandalphon’s fist in his stomach. He thinks of every time he’s been afraid in the last 6000 years. 

Is this how love is supposed to feel? He thought all angels were beings of love. But he could never imagine talking to someone the way he has just been dressed down. If he saw someone treating a human this way, he would step in. 

Why not step in for himself? 

Words are echoing in his brain.

_Wars are to be won, not avoided. You’re ridiculous!_ _Lose the gut!_ Could these truly be the words of a representative from God? Could these words actually come from someone doing Her will? 

“Well, I suppose I am, really.” 

Is this what God really wants? Could this possibly be what She meant? Is this the same God Crowley spoke of? The one who used to lovingly tell Her children to hang the stars in whatever pattern they thought best? The one who told him kindly that he should look after the humans? The one who didn’t punish him for giving away the flaming sword? Is this the God who sent Jesus to Earth? Her Earthly son who said to _ love thy enemies _ ?

“I mean, I have no intention of fighting in any war,” he says. He puts the uniform down. He is not a fighter. He is a being of love. 

Does the angel before him really represent God? Does God think he is a pathetic excuse for an angel? The same God he prayed to for a sign? The same God who sent him Crowley?

“Don’t be a coward!” the Quartermaster spits. 

Aziraphale doesn’t feel like a coward. He feels brave. He’s feeling braver every minute. 

The Quartermaster sidles up to him. “You get into position right now and I won’t say anything more about the body you discorporated. We can take the sword out of your celestial wages,” he says in a confidential tone. Aziraphale doesn’t want a pardon. He doesn’t want forgiveness, not from this angel. Not from anyone here. 

Why would God make an angel who loved humans? And human things? Human foods, human inventions? God is all knowing and all powerful. So why would God make  _ him _ ? 

“I was in the middle of something important. I demand to be returned!” he insists. His mind is still spinning. 

Why  _ would _ God make  _ him _ ? And _after_ all the others? He’s never heard of another angel being made after the war. Why was he the  _ last _ one? 

“Without a body? That’s ridiculous,” the Quartermaster huffs. 

Why would God make an angel who could love a demon?

“It is?” Aziraphale asks, realization dawning. 

Why would God allow an angel to make a  _ soul bond _ with a demon? 

“Obviously. What are you going to do? You can’t possess them,” the angel snorts. 

Crowley. He can get to Crowley. 

“Demons can.”

He can get to Crowley and he can tell Crowley everything. 

The Quartermaster turns his back.“You’re not a demon, you’re an angel.”

Aziraphale has stopped listening. He realizes he never needed to listen. He walks towards the spinning globe, a direct portal to Earth. 

“What are you-- where are you going?”

He is  _ God’s _ creation. He was made by  _ Her _ , not by Heaven. 

“How does one navigate?” he asks, looks over his shoulder, remembers he’s not in polite company. He’s not in any company. He’s with the only true enemy he ever had. 

“Oh well,” he says to himself. 

She told him to look after the humans. 

“Get away from that!” 

She said it would be obvious. 

“I’ll figure it out as I go.” 

Aziraphale has found it at last. Courage. 

  
  


* * *

Saturday Evening - Tadfield Bus Stop

“It says Oxford on the front,” Aziraphale says, confused. The bus is slowing down, drawing closer. 

Crowley takes a swing from the bottle.. “Yeah . . . but he’ll drive to London anyway. He just won’t know why.” 

Aziraphale swallows. He defied Heaven today. He stood up for himself to a Quartermaster. He broke all the rules. He stood side by side with a demon. He questioned Gabriel. This shouldn’t be hard. He wonders where his bravery has gone. “I suppose I should get him to drop me off at the bookshop.” He wants to hear Crowley say “I’ll come, too.” He wants to hear Crowley say, “Let’s go out for a drink.” He remembers telling Crowley they weren’t friends. That he didn’t even like him. He expects to hear Crowley say, “Sounds good,” or “Have a nice life”. 

What Crowley says instead is: “It burned down, remember?” Aziraphale remembers sitting on a beach with Crowley almost fifty years ago. Telling him he could stay at the bookshop. If his flat ever burned down. Crowley must remember too, because he says, “You can stay at my place, if you like.”

Aziraphale can’t help the words that come out of his mouth. As much as he’s stood up to all the bullies today, he knows that there’s tomorrow. And tomorrow he must figure out how to put the genie back in the bottle and ask for forgiveness. “I don’t think my side would like that.”

Instead, Crowley just looks at him sadly. “You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We’re on our own side. Like Agnes said, we need to choose our faces wisely.”

The words echo in Aziraphale’s mind. He stands and follows Crowley onto the bus. _ Our own side. _ He takes the seat next to him.  _ Our own side. _ He reaches out and covers Crowley’s hand with his own.  _ Our own side. _

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly. The demon turns to look at him. He hasn’t moved his hand from where it grips the armrest. Hasn’t acknowledged Aziraphale’s touch. Aziraphale feels butterflies in his stomach. He’s nervous, so very nervous. How can he have faced down everything and still feel so nervous about  _ this _ ? He turns as best as he can in the cramped bus seat. His knees knock into Crowley’s. “Can you forgive me?”

Crowley’s face is blank and expressionless. Aziraphale wishes he wasn’t wearing sunglasses. “Nothing to forgive,” he says at last. His voice is clipped and tight. 

“No!” Aziraphale says, loudly. The other passengers on the bus turn to look at them. “No,” he says again, softer, but no less urgent. “ _ You _ can’t do that.  _ I _ can’t do that. We-” He stops, trying to figure out what exactly he wants to say, how he can say everything that he’s been keeping bottled up inside for 6000 years. He’s loved words his whole life. He should have prepared for this. But Crowley was right, sixteen years ago:  _ You’re never going to be ready. _ He wasn’t. If he was ready, he would have prepared. He would have thought these words through. He would have known exactly what to say and how to say it. 

“Let me try again,” he urges. Crowley raises an eyebrow, nods. 

“What I mean is, If this is our side, if  _ we _ are on  _ our _ side, then  _ our _ rules apply, right?” 

Crowley nods, slower this time. 

“And who makes  _ our _ rules?” 

Crowley considers, looks off into the mid-distance. “I don’t think we have rules anymore.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, no, we have to have some-”

Crowley sighs. “Aziraphale, a lot has happened and I think this is-”

“Listen to me, please,” Aziraphale says, his voice getting loud again. The woman in the front of the bus turns to give them a pointed look. Crowley smirks and waves a sarcastic hello at her. Aziraphale makes a sharp motion with the hand not holding Crowley’s. The woman suddenly becomes engrossed in her phone. Another motion and, against all logic, music is suddenly playing over the bus speakers. 

“Ooh, you make me live . . .” 

“That should give us a modicum of privacy,” Aziraphale says. 

Crowley says, “Aziraphale, we don’t have to do this now. . .”

“We do,” Aziraphale insists. “I’ve waited 6000 years and if you make me wait another moment I’m going to burst.” 

Crowley stills. 

Aziraphale puts both his hand over Crowley’s. “I have not treated you well.” He clears his throat. “I have behaved most abominably in the past few days. I said things I did not mean, and I want to apologize.”

“What does this have to do with  _ rules _ ?” Crowley asks icily. 

Aziraphale bites his lip. He squeezes Crowley’s hand over the armrest. “If we are on our own side, then we make our own rules,” he says softly. “And I think that on our side, we must love ourselves as much as. . .” He swallows, and tries to catch Crowley’s eyes through the sunglasses. “As much as we love each other. And that means that if I have hurt you, I should apologize. And then you can either choose to forgive me or not, but you can’t go around saying there’s nothing to forgive, as if you’re not worthy of an apology.”

There is a long moment between them, the only sound the gentle rumble of the bus on the road and Freddie Mercury crooning over the speakers. “You’re my best friend.”

Then Crowley turns his hand over and grips Aziraphale’s tightly. Aziraphale lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

“I can do that,” Crowley says. “We can. And I forgive you.” His voice is rough. “But I don’t want any more rules.”

“A promise?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley shakes his head. “I don’t want a promise either.”

“Then what-“

“A vow.”

_ You always go so fast,  _ Aziraphale thinks. But there is a space inside him that’s singing. Crooning out a love song of his own, a love song for Crowley, one he’s kept under wraps and hidden away for centuries. He looks down at the floor and smiles softly. 

“All right,” he says, a blush creeping into his cheeks. “A vow.”

Crowley shifts in the plastic seat next to him. “I have another vow for us.” When Aziraphale looks up, he can see that Crowley has pushed his sunglasses up on top of his head. Their eyes meet. 

“I want us to vow that we are on our own side. Together.” Crowley says. His voice is thick with emotion. “No more hiding. No more pretending. No matter what. We owe only to each other. Agreed?” He sounds almost timid. It is strange to hear Crowley, so usually full of bravado and swagger, sound so very unsure.

Aziraphale nods. “Agreed.” He leans closer, bringing his face up to Crowley’s own. “What God hath joined together, let no one separate,” he whispers, feeling Crowley’s breath ghosting over his lips.

Crowley snorts and pulls away. “Oh, why did you have to go and bring Her into it?”

Aziraphale frowns. “I think She  _ did _ bring us together,” he complains. “I’m sure of it!” 

“An angel and a demon? Did your brain get fried when Adam separated you from that barmy psychic?” 

“God’s plan is-”

“Ineffable,” Crowley groans. “I know.” 

Aziraphale smiles. He leans in again. “Will you please let me kiss you now?” 

“Not yet.” 

“Why not?”

Crowley smiles at him, slowly and wickedly. His voice drops an octave. “Because I don’t think either of us wants to stop at just a kiss.” 

Aziraphale blushes again. He clears his throat, breaks eye contact and looks at the floor. “I assume the . . . uhm. . . offer of your flat still stands?”

“I even have a bed,” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale brings Crowley’s hand up to his mouth and kisses the back of it gently. “How marvelous.” 

“There’s also another problem we have to solve,” Crowley says. 

“What’s that?” 

“We may be on our own side, but Heaven and Hell are going to kill us.” 

Freddie Mercury serenades them all the way back to London. 

“I was born to love you, with every single beat of my heart . . .”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos!


End file.
